


Diary of an Incomplete Bastard

by islasands



Series: Lambski [70]
Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-15
Updated: 2011-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-22 15:53:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/islasands/pseuds/islasands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam's diary is the one place where he can bare his not so pretty, not so likeable, not so fucking 'available' soul. He is on the brink of leaving the one person he has ever loved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diary of an Incomplete Bastard

PART 1

Tuesday

I wonder what the fuck he meant by that? Am I happy? Who asks that at 4 in the fucking morning?

_You split me open to examine my seeds_

_Then cry over  spilt milk_

_Why create clouds if you do not like rain?_

What he really wants is to know if I am leaving him. Or have already left. And I don’t know the answer. Yesterday he asked if I ever thought about him during the day and I said no, I didn't. Which was true. But why say it?

Reason?  I didn’t want to lie. His eyes looked like brimming basins and I wanted to tip them out.

I am truly sick and tired of being loved. God, imagine saying that out loud? But it is exhausting. My face feels like a painting in a gallery which over time is being discoloured and stained and just plain worn out by people BREATHING ON ME.  

By my lover, breathing his non-secret, secret fears all over me when I’m asleep.  

By my friends, breathing all over the cafe table, talking up their kitchen careers, their new recipes for success, their latest fucking cast-iron plans for domestic bliss.

By my band, whose loyalty is starting to have a dollar value, filling the studio with the stagnant air of jokes that have worn thin. I know they feel exploited for building the “brand’ of me instead of making their own fucking mark.  etc. etc.

And I smile out of my painting.

_You take music out of me with a needle_

_And test it for proteins_

_For personal truths, which may or may not be life-giving_

_While I am on the run from my very own veins_

Wednesday

Awesome fucking day, doing nothing, saying nothing, and fucking like a duck. I watched ducks fucking once. The drake bites the side of the female’s neck and fucks her with such fervour that she keeps going under, coming up for air while he drives her in circles.  My lover boy went off to look at his neck in the mirror. Fingering his injury. I am a complete bastard.

But in other news, the tour is stacking up. Cutest boy on the lighting crew, not a care in the world, blatantly eye-fucked me out of a room, up a stair, and into someone’s office. Built like a swimmer. A butterfly swimmer. Shoulders and biceps like hills of brass. He lazed over my cock like it was an ice-cream. It was sunny. Both the room, and the fuck. But when he wanted to kiss I couldn’t be bothered. I only like kissing my love.

Friday

Rehearsals aced. I’m happy.

We went to a movie, first time in ages. I liked staring at the screen and feeling him sitting beside me in the dark, doing the same. I glanced at him and was suddenly turned on. Reminded me of when we first met. Watching him across rooms, talking, laughing, drinking. Fact: When his attention is elsewhere i.e NOT on me, I feel free to want him.

In that soft moonlight of the movie lighting his profile looked statuesque, his nostrils sculpted, his lips sealed, his  brow more severe,. He looked as silent and inaccessible as those Greek statues whose eyes look lost in memory. I wanted to run my hand up his leg, undo his pants, bend over and suck his cock into my life, drink in the sweet musty smell of his skin. Urine and soap. Pubic hair on my tongue. Mouthing his lolling testicles. The head of his cock as wet and smooth as a poached pear.

And to do it without him interfering. Don’t talk. Don’t put your hands on the sides of my head. Don’t go fishing in my eyes for my fucking soul.

Fat fucking chance. He loves me.

The movie was about betrayal. Such a sad story.

Wednesday

He is mine!

 No, not you, my love. You’re not mine. You WANT to be mine.

One of the promo dudes. So not my type and vice-versa. One of those people who no sooner smiles than the smile is wiped away. The one who says “Are we done here?” as he pushes back his chair. But, fuck, I love a slow controlled entry. It’s like your cock is a password into the deepest meaning of the word ‘relax’. And he answered his phone at the same time. Jaw-dropping when I moved inside him, but you’d never know it from his voice. Classy bitch.

Thursday

My mother visited. Her best friend has cancer. We talked it over. Cried. Made each other laugh. Held hands. I love her laugh. Tinkles like a bell. She was leaving and wound down the window to say goodbye. “He’s more of a match for you than you think,” she said over her sunglasses.

I nodded. She went on with some kind and insightful motherly platitudes about how it was time to let down my guard. etc etc. I let it run over me like a shower. Same feeling as when I’m so sung out, wrung out, after a show that I want to sleep under falling water. Often do it too. Curl up on the shower floor until the water runs cold or I’m woken by cramp.

He came running up the stairs, eager to tell me something. No idea what it was. His eyes so blue. Blue like the sea and undefeated. Who wrote that? I watched him unwrapping his purchase. His hands that handle me with such care. Like I’m a moody fuck. A sulky arsed gorilla. Pats my fur while I growl. Makes me laugh. Makes me angry. Bores me shitless. Makes me want to fuck his brains out.

And just by holding something up in the sun, his eyes as blue as every summer day of my boyhood, when nothing and no-one owned me, makes me cry.

_Sometimes when I'm in overdrive from lack of sleep_

_I feel all nicely adrift._

_Like a spent thing that has new life floating._

Basically, the only time I feel love is when I have worn out every other feeling.

PART 2

God knows what month it is but it’s a Friday

Never been great at this journal thing. Besides, the tour is what it is. My work and my solace and my fucking frustration.

The last show in London nearly broke me. In a good way. Singing _Outlaws_ and a young dude in the front row reached up his hand. Blubbing. Real deal crying, with his face ugly from being all scrunched up. I stopped the song, got him up on stage, and started again. We sat side by side. I had my free arm around him. He hung his head, leaning on me while I sang.

We had 2 free days in France and I spent them with Yves. We hung out at his gallery which he has transformed into a desert. The floor was a foot deep in sand. Nothing else in the room but a life-size photograph of a well. We lay on the sand and kissed while the gallery visitors walked around, looking at us as though we were an exhibit. Which we were.  

_Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,  
_

_And waste its sweetness on the desert air._

Such were our kisses. The entire time I thought about my true love. Yes, dear diary, I fucking said “true”.

Yves clears my mind. Gets me in his talons and flies me up to his ledge on a mountain cliff. Fucks my MIND when he fucks my flesh.

Later I skyped my love:

Me: _Well, yeah. Why don’t you come to Milan. We’ve got a 4 day gap._

Him: You don’t exactly look happy at the prospect. Where have you been? I called Blake. He said he hadn’t seen you for a couple of days.

Me: _I was fucking an old friend of mine._

Him: Okay.

Me: _You asked._

Him: I said, “okay”.

I liked skypeing better when he used to take his clothes off and wank, looking down at himself.

Saturday

One month of the tour left to go. He arrives tomorrow. To celebrate I hooked up with my lighting friend. We got so wasted we ended up sitting on the edge of a spa, laughing at our flaccidity situation. We woke up a few hours later and had a play off of Bejewelled. I easily won. I am good at making irrelevant things fall into place.

I love the open air concerts. Last night it started raining halfway through. The audience was like a bed of stones and I ran the songs over them as though my voice was a river, making them shine, making them show their colours. We don’t actually come in many. Mainly shades of grey, white, faded ochre.

Probably my best gig in the tour so far.

Sometimes when I walk out on stage I feel like a bear who has slept all winter and is lumbering out of my cave, hungry and belligerent. I don’t want to mate. I want to eat. Even the most poignant vocal has an appetite to it. Quite honestly, in those moments I want nothing else but that hunger. Life beyond the stage is an obstacle to being on it.

Monday

Lover boy is in my bed. We had lullaby sex. Come to think of it, he is the only person about whom I could make that statement.

_I have an ocean in my bedroom_

_right in my bed, in actual fact_

_and when there are storms it spills over, onto the floor_

_drowning my clothes_

_my lap-top, my cellphone, my opinions_

_In the morning gulls fly above me_

_signalling that land is near_

_but I don’t want to go ashore_

_I love this queen-sized ocean:_

_It has sheets made of currents_

_a duvet made of waves_

_and pillows stuffed with schools of sardines_

 Friday

 I took three separate doses of sleeping pills to get through that 14 hour flight and when we arrived in Melbourne had what I imagine is a panic attack. Head felt like screwed up paper in the grate of a fireplace.Palpitations. Couldn’t look anyone in the eye. I WANTED TO GO HOME. Wanted to see my mother. Couldn’t face anyone else.

 When he left it was such a fucking relief.

 I wonder if you can have a “relief attack”?

 Thursday

Awesome in OZ and NZ! Wish I could have brought him down for these shows. I haven’t laughed so much in years. They don’t take me too seriously, down under. During one interview a DJ asked me if I’d heard about the latest research that proves straight men are more turned on by gay porn than by straight. “We’ve always known that in Straya,” he said. “All Aussies love their  decks!” hahaha

Friday

I miss him. That is all.

PART 3

July. A year. A life.

Arrived home last weekend to discover, surprise, surprise, he has moved out. Without telling me. I immediately went to his new apartment, called him every name under the sun, broke shit, ripped his clothes off and forced him outside onto his own balcony. Locked him out.

He stood there laughing at me, and then put his lips against the glass so that it fogged up. I put my cheek where his lips were. Against the misted circle of his kiss. Then I slid the door open and he took me in his arms while I wept.

We didn’t fuck.

I went home and called Yves who ranted at me in French. Just what the doctor ordered. I pulled myself together. Caught up with my mother and friends. But you know what? I felt like the proverbial fish out of water. The colour has run out of my scales. My eyes feel as though they have retained the form of vision, but not the substance.

They were swimming around each other like fish in an aquarium, rising to the surface to get morsels of news about birthdays, pregnancies, job offers, the cost of sanding and varnishing a parquet floor. I was on the rocks, gasping.

I missed my fans. Missed the sea of their faces and arms. Losing their shit to the anarchic splendour of music. Then it’s back to work, back to hunting and gathering. Back to fronting up.

Well, I am too. I’m already fucking working on fucking album 3.

Monday

Nothing beats a vacay in the sun. And this has got to be a first. I am sitting on the wooden pier outside my beach chalet. I am drinking in order to cope with the amount of space above me and ahead of me. The moon has just came out, Neruda, fashion, like a fruit.

 _The sun goes round opening up the leaves_  
The moon appears like a white fruit  
and man bows to his destiny

And I am alone. I don’t like it one bit but it is necessary.

I do not do solitude as well as I might if he were here.

Now what does that say? It says I want do a Big Blue number, and wander out into that sea, which happens to be dazzling like a bicycle reflector light, and have it guide me home.

_They say home is where the heart is_

_Mine is in a dark figure I can just make out_

_Walking his dog on a beach - who knows where -_

_His hair shaped and coloured like the crest of a wave_

Thursday

I thought everything would change once I obtained critical acclaim.

Here’s something for you to mull over, dear diary. I’ve quit fucking.

September and probably the rest of the year

Got into serious trouble for turning up at the MTV awards totally smashed and wearing a blonde wig and a woman’s camisole. You can quote any of the shit I aimed at the fan cuz it’s all over the media.

_The music industry is 99% wank of a cheap, anus breaking, dildo._

_No. Her last album was nothing but a heroic crock of posturing._

_Suck my dick, bitch._

And there he was! The love of my life. Hanging on the arm of some pumped up brainless twink who clearly viewed the world as his personal mirror. Constantly checking his reflection, in every direction.

Sunday

I called him. We talked for hours. We arranged to meet.

Tuesday

We walked in the park and he took my hand as we walked.

Him: _You cannot do without me so why fight it. You’re more mine than anyone else's, and no, it’s not miraculous. It’s not dangerous. It’s not going to make the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end._

Me: Keep talking.

Him: _I_ _don’t want the parts of you that aren’t mine to keep. I don’t want to fucking understand you._

Me: God forbid.

Him: _Yes, God forbid. God forbid any fucker who thinks there are unfathomable depths to the bathtub of your soul._

Me: Oh. A nice warm bath. That’s what I want. One that you have run for me.

Kissing and kissing and kissing.

Friday

The new song I am working on is so impersonal. I am inspired by the names of precious and semi-precious stones. Well, Oscar Wilde took every opportunity to mention carbuncles, peridots, rubies and pearls. I think the new album may simply consist of lists. The working parts of a mountain. A glossary of waves. The birds of the Solomon Isles.

Clearly I am celebrating the austerity of our life together. He sleeps in my arms and it is enough.

1\. He is so shy. Like a violet hidden beneath an extravagance of foliage.

2\. He kisses his dog and then me, which is all kinds of wrong. But I am not jealous!

3\. When I don’t know where he is I KNOW where he is.

4\. He is the apple of my eye.

_I cannot stop loving to sing_

_It saves me from searching for the meaning of life_

_When there is none:_

_Perhaps the truth of our predicament is this:_

_everything really_ has _been said and done_

_so play on..._

Dot. Dot. Dot. __

Every fucking happy sad day   
__

Today I told him he suits me the way spring suits a fucking daffodil. He was searching my hair for headlice. My god-son has them. Be great to turn up for that photoshoot with those bastards crawling over my hair.

Truth is, I'd been AWOL for a week, keeping my compete bastard hand in, and he was deliberately annoying me by being incurious.

Me: _Am I still a complete bastard? If the answer is no I'm going to Plath myself in our new gas oven._

Him: I think you have eggs.

Me: _God, I love you so fucking much it gets on my nerves._

Him: You'll always be my incomplete bastard, doll.

Me: _I should think so. It's the only reason I got your white dress out of storage._

Goodnight, dear diary.


End file.
